


a slice of orange cake

by apollothyme



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Alternate Universe, Baking, Crack, Domestic, Fluff, M/M, Mentions of Drowning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-01
Updated: 2014-09-01
Packaged: 2018-02-15 17:32:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,318
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2237544
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/apollothyme/pseuds/apollothyme
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You don’t know how you keep setting your kitchen on fire?” Sami asks with a raised eyebrow.</p><p>“I followed the instructions minutely! Everything, I swear!” Mesut huffs a little. “It’s not like I keep doing it on purpose.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	a slice of orange cake

**Author's Note:**

> Huge thanks to [Fabi](https://twitter.com/shiiruba) who gave a lot of motivation, inspiration and strength, and [ascience](http://archiveofourown.org/users/ascience/pseuds/ascience) who gave me the final push I needed.
> 
> I made a [playlist](http://8tracks.com/thesilverwitch/a-cup-of-coffee-lazy-mornings) to go along with this fic, and Fabi made some cute Samisut art that I used as the cover so you should totally go check that out. There is also now a [Chinese translation](http://wangmy9208.lofter.com/) by msfigaro and the awesome artwork scattered in the fic is by jamesandmesut.

It’s the smell of smoke drifting through his open window that wakes him up.

Sami wrinkles his nose, curses whoever decided to throw an indoor barbecue at ten in the morning—most likely Benzema, who has the self-awareness of a rock—and gets up to close the window.

He checks his phone out of habit, not bothering to give any of the emails he received overnight more than a quick glance. They’re the same kind of emails he gets during the weekdays, as his colleagues are all maniacs, unaware of the concept of sleeping in and not bothering other people on a weekend. It’s work, a work emergency that probably involves something like a printer running out of paper or the paint chipping in a closet, more work, spam that didn’t get picked up by his spam preferences and a video of a baby playing with a puppy from Modric.

Sami flags that one so he’ll see it later when he’s not half-asleep and glaring at his phone’s screen, personally offended by the still too bright light that is the lowest brightness setting.

After he’s finished scrolling through his emails and decided which ones he’s going to ignore—roughly every single one of them—he turns his pillow around for maximum comfort and coolness. He sighs, because he’s become one of those people who appreciate the good things in his life, not matter how small they are, closes his eyes and then promptly opens them again when the sound of the fire alarm reminds him there is no such thing as real peace and quiet anymore.

“Oh, for cock’s sake, Benzema,” Sami curses, even though he’s alone and no one can see him, like an old man yelling at the clouds.

He puts on a pair of too large, washed out sweatpants and his old university’s shirt and trudges outside. He’s prepared to give Benzema—and Fábio, Cristiano and probably half the building, because they’re all nice guys, and Sami likes them enough, but they’re also kind of idiots—his best 'you’re on my shit list forever now, asshole' glare. That’s the least anyone who disturbs his sleep on a weekend deserves.

He can already imagine their idiotic matching grins as well, as if to say ‘Oops, we started a fire while trying to cook a meal for ten people because we all eat like we’ve never seen food before’. Sami will only be able stare at them in distaste, because what else can he do in the face of people who once tried to get a motorbike onto the roof so they could ride it into the pool?

Sami is twenty-five years old and frankly too old for this crap.

He can already imagine the speech they’re going to get from Iker later, about responsibility and not setting things on fire to see what will happen, and the disappointed look from Xabi, which will make everyone feel like the dog who just pissed on the carpet. At least that will be kind of funny to watch.

Sami is pulled out of his thoughts when he notices the wisps of smoke coming from his next door neighbour’s apartment and not three floors down from Benzema’s place.

For the second time that morning, Sami says, “Oh, for cock’s sake,” this time with an added hint of fear.

“Mesut! Mesut, open up!” he shouts as he bangs on the door. His mind is going through a million possible scenarios in those few seconds, none of them good, none of them the slightest bit reassuring because that is _smoke_ coming from _Mesut_ ’s apartment. “Mesut!” he shouts again, before he takes four steps back and prepares to burst open the door with a shoulder ram.

He only manages two steps forward before he has to stop and snap his whole body back in order to avoid crashing into a dirty-looking, disgruntled, but very much alive and breathing, Mesut.

“What—” he begins to say, once he’s regained his footing, cut off by the hand on his shoulder Mesut uses to push him away.

Sami watches Mesut walk up to the fire extinguisher they have near the elevator and follows him into the apartment, which is now covered by an oppressive cloud of smoke that gives it a lovely indoor campfire vibe. Mesut goes into the kitchen, coughing a little, and he has trouble pulling the plastic string from the extinguisher to make it work, hands slipping and shaking too much. He looks kind of crazy, with white dust in his hair and this overly concentrated look in his eyes. It’s the one he always gets when he’s doing something truly important, that’s now mixed with something close to fear.

Just like that, all of Sami’s anger from earlier dissipates. He forgets about his interrupted sleep and his idiotic neighbours, forgets that he was ever mad in the first place. He quietly takes the fire extinguisher from Mesut’s hands, and aims it at the oven, which is not on fire, just sending up enough air pollution to make a smoke signal for people on the other side of the city to see. It takes a few seconds for the smoke to stop flowing, and afterwards Sami is the one who goes around opening all the windows, because Mesut is frozen staring at the oven with his hands clasped in two tight fists and his mouth a pinched line.

“What happened?” Sami asks, once he’s pulled Mesut away from the kitchen and into the living room where there are more open windows.

One of his hands is on Mesut’s shoulder. He doesn’t mean to leave it there. He plans to move away, put some space between them so Mesut can breathe. Instead he notices the slight tremors running down Mesut’s body and pulls his friend closer. He squeezes the muscle on Mesut’s shoulder, runs his thumb over the naked skin between the collar of his shirt and his neck, and then finally takes a step back.

“I tried to bake a cake,” Mesut mumbles while he scratches the back of his neck, not looking at Sami. 

Sami can’t help the laugh that escapes past his lips. He knows it makes him a terrible friend, but it lightens up the air, and really, he ask to ask, because, “Seriously? You tried baking again?”

Mesut crosses his arms over his chest. He doesn’t sound angry or scared anymore, just embarrassed at himself. “I don’t know how it keeps happening.”

“You don’t know how you keep setting your kitchen on fire?” Sami asks with a raised eyebrow.

“I followed the instructions minutely! Everything! I swear,” he huffs a little, “It’s not like I keep doing it on purpose.”

Sami waves him off. He has no idea why every time Mesut tries to bake, it results in disaster, and he’s not about to start throwing around accusations. He simply wishes Mesut would quit it, once and for all. Some things are just not meant to be.

Sami has never won a game of chess in his life. He’s tried, again and again, against his computer, real people and once, his seven-year-old niece. He’s looked up tips and tricks online, but none of them have ever worked for him. As the years passed by, he finally accepted that him and chess are a failed romance that is never meant to be. It stings, but he knows it’s for the best for himself and his ego.

“What was it this time?” Sami asks, trying to change the topic so Mesut will stop looking like the entire universe is setting out to make him miserable.

“Orange cake. For tomorrow,” Mesut says and then it’s Sami’s turn to scratch his neck and look away.

“How did you know?”

Mesut shrugs, gaze focused on Sami with the pinpoint precision from earlier. Sami feels bad about wishing scared Mesut was back so he could pet his hair and avoid this conversation, even if he only wishes it for a second.

“I got a letter addressed to you the other day. Opened it on accident. It was from some department store with a special discount for you to use on your _birthday_.”

“Look—”

“Why didn’t you say something?” Mesut asks, cutting him off.

Sami should say something about that, but he’s not dumb enough to step further into the lion’s den. He shrugs. “I don’t really celebrate my birthday. Didn’t see the need to tell people about it if I’m not gonna do anything.”

Mesut looks at him like Sami’s intelligence has gone down to seaweed level. “That is so stupid, Sami Khedira.”

“Well, I didn’t ask for your opinion, Mesut Özil.”

They glare at each other until their eyes start to water, which is probably from the lingering smoke and not the hardcore staring match they’re having, but Sami still likes to think he won when Mesut is the first to look away.

“You’re having a birthday party tomorrow. I’ve already told everyone.”

“Hey—”

“From the building, don’t worry, I know you hate everyone you work with. You can pick the place. Pool or the community garden?” Mesut moves away, back to the kitchen, leaving Sami to trail after him.

Sami thinks about protesting, because really, he should. Not only did he win the staring match, fair and square, he’s also a proper adult, with a real job and his own apartment. He shouldn’t be letting this slightly shorter, german man who prefers Marvel over DC and has yet to figure out how to do his own taxes dictate his life.

But then Mesut decides to change his game plan and goes from vicious otter to cute puppy. He widens his eyes, which are already big enough on their own, thanks, and tugs out his bottom lip. And really, this shouldn’t affect Sami at all, he’s not twelve and bitter that some kid at school doesn’t want to be his friend. Except it affects him, of course it does, because Sami is catastrophically, astronomically, pathetically bad at saying ‘no’ to Mesut, has been from the start. 

It’s a curse. Or maybe he’s just that much weaker when it comes to Mesut. Sami’s going with the curse option for the time being.

Which is why, instead of telling Mesut to fuck off, Sami says, “Pool,” because their community garden is two trees and a fern in the lot behind the building, and just hopes he won’t regret his decision.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time Sami meets Mesut, it’s one week after Mesut moves into their apartment building. He rented the apartment next to Sami’s, which had been blissfully empty and rid of any annoying neighbours since Sami moved in.

Sami doesn’t go say ‘hi’ with a casserole of homemade lasagna, because to start with, he’s not that kind of guy, and to finish, he doesn’t know how to cook anything that requires more than five minutes of preparation. He could still show up, make five minutes of awkward small chat and silently judge all of his new neighbour’s decor choices, but again, _he’s not that kind of guy_.

He’s not anti-social by any means, but it takes him a while to warm up to people. He’s not like Sergio and Cristiano, who immediately pop in on the first day to check out the new neighbour and whose loud voices can be heard even through the walls that separate the condos. Sami figures he’ll meet _Mesut Ö_ —as his name tag reads downstairs—next time there’s a big football match, and somebody drags a TV down to the garden so they can all watch the game together and drink their own body weight in alcohol.

This is all to say that he’s a little surprised, and very confused, when somebody knocks on his door at nine in the morning on a Sunday.

“What?” Sami asks, because he’s in his Batman pyjamas, still pretty much dead to the world, and there’s a stranger on his doorstep carrying a large cake and smiling at him like the sun comes out of Sami’s ass.

“Hi! I’m your new neighbour, Mesut. Sorry I didn’t say anything earlier, I was busy with moving and everything.”

It takes a Sami a few seconds to realise Mesut is speaking in German, which Sami now only speaks once a week when he skypes with his family. It takes him another few seconds to retrieve his mother language from the back of his brain, but when he finally gets it back the words flow easily, better than they ever will in Spanish.

“It’s fine,” he says, and then, because his brain to mouth filter requires at least one cup of coffee before it starts working, “Aren’t I supposed to be the one showing up with food at your apartment?”

Mesut looks down at the cake on his hands, then looks up at Sami, “I… don’t think so? I could leave, if you want,” he says, pointing back to his apartment and making Sami realise he’s acting like the kind of ungracious host that would earn himself a smack from his mom if she could see him.

“No, no, it’s fine. Do you want to come in? I can make us coffee,” he says.

Mesut flashes him a grateful smile and nods, following Sami into the kitchen. Sami notices him looking around, but it seems to be more out of polite curiosity rather than intruding nosiness.

“I like what you’ve done with your place. It’s like, minimalistic, without looking too simple or naked,” Mesut comments, running his hand over the marble countertops slowly, as if he’s appreciating them.

Sami makes a low sound of a agreement as he busies himself with the coffee machine. He’s not going to comment anything, but something about the way Mesut sounds so honest prompts him to say, “I wanted more stuff in the beginning, but I don’t like shopping at IKEA and everywhere else is a bit too expensive, so I just buy piece by piece. I’ve kind of stopped now. Like you said, it’s minimalistic, but—” he looks at his living room from his open kitchen, admires the wide space,the large windows and the walls, bare save for a couple of vintage posters, “I like it.”

Mesut nods and he doesn’t look at Sami like Sami’s a snob for preferring an empty apartment with quality furniture over an IKEA catalogue. He looks like he gets it, like he understands that some people prefer quality over quantity and it doesn’t make them arrogant or conceited; simply means they have different interests and goals. Sami’s always liked simple and practical, so this works out for him. Not to mention that it’s more fun to save up for something he really likes than to buy the first thing he sees.

“I think I’ll do the same. Not for everything, but for my bedroom. Make it a little bit more…” he trails off, leaving Sami to finish for him as he hands him a hot cup of coffee in a Star Wars mug.

“Personal.”

“Yeah,” Mesut grins at him and Sami finds himself smiling back without noticing, finds that Mesut’s smile is apparently contagious, even at nine in the morning.

Sami gets two dessert plates and a knife to cut the cake Mesut brought. “What kind is it?”

“Orange cake.”

Sami looks up. “That’s my favourite,” he says, surprised to discover there’s another person in Madrid who prefers, well, basically anything, but orange in this specific case, over lemon.

“I know, Sergio told me,” Mesut says. Sami nods. So he’s still the only weirdo in town. “I prefer yogurt, but orange is also on the top of the list.”

“Better than lemon?” Sami asks. It’s ridiculous how this is genuinely important to him, but it’s not his fault. Honestly, the whole city of Madrid has a fixation with lemon. It’s a problem. Sami doesn’t even know how Mesut managed to find an orange cake.

“Definitely. I tried the lemon cake at the store and it was awful,” Mesut wrinkles his nose like a kid who’s just eaten something foul. Sami laughs and cuts him a bigger slice. “Also, I’m sorry that it’s store-bought, I tried to bake one yesterday, but it didn’t work out.”

“Is that why I smelled something burning last night?” Sami asks with a short laugh. He thought that was Iker attempting to cook without Sara there to help him.

Mesut looks away and scuffs his shoe on the ground. “Baking and me just don’t mix. I’m sorry,” he repeats, looking visibly embarrassed from the way he’s avoiding Sami’s eye and his cheeks are turning pink.

Sami takes pity on him, even feels a little bad for laughing. “It’s fine, honestly. I can’t cook worth a damn, so anything that’s edible is good in my book. Also, you brought me my favourite kind of cake,” Sami takes a large bite as he speaks, and the next words come out half mumbled, half swallowed by the food in his mouth, “really can’t complain about that.”

“Alright,” Mesut says, taking a large bite as well and smiling around the food. Sami finds himself smiling back again.

He ignores the little voice in the back of his head telling him the last time he smiled this much at a stranger at such an early hour was, well, never actually. It’s too early for that kind of thinking, anyway.

He takes Mesut to the living room and they talk about themselves, Sami still in his Batman pyjamas, Mesut in regular street clothes. At one point, Sami thinks about going to his bedroom to change, because this is the kind of thing that sticks in his mind like a sore thumb and rubs against him in all the wrong ways, but it’s little too late for that and Mesut doesn’t seem to care, so Sami stays.

He asks what brings Mesut to Madrid—new opportunities, work, a change of scenario—and what Mesut thinks of the city so far—chaotic, loud, hot, but also vibrating with energy in a refreshing way. In return, Mesut asks him how long he’s been in Madrid—a little over a year—and why he moved—a change of scenario, like Mesut, but also the need to get away from home, just for a while, just so he could be himself without anything from his past holding him back.

Mesut nods along as Sami speaks, listens carefully and makes little humming noises in all the right places. Sami’s not the sharing type, but what the hell, he’s also not the type to wake up at nine in the morning and talk to strangers in his pyjamas. Might as well go all out.

A small chat turns into thirty minutes, which turns into one hour, two, three, until Mesut’s stomach starts grumbling and Sami suggests they go out for a drink. “It’s still too early for lunch, but we can get some tapas later if you’d like.”

Mesut flashes him a brilliant, wide open smile. Sami stares for too long, his brain short-circuiting at the sight. He’s been single for too long, hasn’t he? He scurries to his bedroom to take a quick shower and change his clothes.

He never thought there was someone else worse to have as a neighbour than an annoying person and he’s surprised to discover he was wrong. Having a cute neighbour is somehow much, much worse. Sami doesn’t even _like_ tapas, but they’re in Madrid and Mesut’s new to the city and Sami’s subconscious had done the talking without too much input from him. So yes, basically, it’s worse.

While he’s getting dressed, Sami thinks back to Mesut’s smile and the fact that Mesut tried to bake him orange cake without even knowing him, because he knew that was Sami’s favourite.

Sami will just have to find a way to survive, it seems.

 

 

 

 

“What’s been set on fire this time?” Marcelo asks as he, Pepe and Fábio show up at the same time to nose around. Sami barely refrains from making a ‘three stooges’ joke.

“Nothing,” he says, because Mesut is in the kitchen trying to figure out if his oven is salvageable, and he doesn’t need the portuguese-speaking squad bothering him. “Just a baking accident.”

“Ah, yes. Those are the worst,” Fábio says, like the voice of all wisdom. Sami stares. He didn’t reckon Fábio to be the baking type, but if he thinks about it, it makes sense. Fábio is always the one who brings the expensive drinks to football night.

“Was he baking something for your birthday? Which, by the way, why didn’t you tell us, asshole?” Marcelo asks as he aims a punch at Sami’s shoulder.

Sami dodges away and slaps him on the back of the head. “Because that was none of your business, dickwad. Also, I don’t celebrate my birthday.”

“But we’re still having a party tomorrow, right?” Pepe asks as he settles down on Mesut’s couch and turns on the television. Sami thinks about telling him the door was open for air circulation, not so he could make himself at home, but really, what’s the point? The others are already settling in, too. Soon everyone will be there to hang out, lured by the opportunity to avoid their responsibilities while pretending to be ‘conscious neighbors’.

“Yeah, sure. We’ll get drunk at the pool and hopefully one of you will drown. It will be a blast.”

The guys make a couple of _oohs_ and Marcelo puts a hand to his chest. “Sami, please, we have feelings.”

Sami rolls his eyes. “Don’t break anything,” he says as he goes into the kitchen to check on how Mesut is doing. “Can it be saved, Doctor? Or is it time to say goodbye? Do we—Do we need to start the funeral arrangements?”

“Ahah, very funny,” Mesut throws the dirty napkins he’s using to check the stove at him. “Five stars quality comedy that.”

“I take your rude disfavour of a great joke as in to say it’s broken.”

Mesut sits back and falls on the tiled floor. He scrubs a hand over his face, covering it in soot. “I mean, I don’t know anything about ovens, but—” he pokes the oven with his foot. A piece of plastic falls off, “yeah, it looks pretty dead to me.”

“It’s alright, you can use my oven whenever you need to until you get a new one,” Sami offers. He doesn’t need to think about his offer before he makes it. It’s Mesut, of course Sami will help him however he can, and at least like this Sami will be around to prevent any future fires.

Mesut lies down on the floor, hands still covering his face. At this rate he’s going to get his whole body dirty with soot. Sami chooses not to say anything.

“Thanks,” Mesut smiles, looks at Sami through the open spaces between his jaunty fingers.

“No problem. You wanna get up and maybe take a shower? Your door is open and the _Span-tuguese_ have started to spill over.”

“Alright, alright,” Mesut laughs and lets Sami pull him up.

By the time they get to the living room, Iker is already there, looking disapprovingly at the smoke marks on the wall—they’ll wash them off later, Sami thinks—and Benzema is checking out Mesut’s DVD collection. Xabi and Álvaro are drinking coffee in the corner and wearing sunglasses indoors, probably out to create a niche club nobody else is allowed in. Sami doesn’t bother asking where they got the cups or the coffee. Some questions are better left unspoken.

Together they watch a rerun of an old Bayern vs Dortmund game and bitch at Sami for not telling them about his birthday. Sami tells them all—not very kindly—to fuck off. Somebody makes a joke that he’s only agreeing to the party because Mesut is throwing it that hits a little close to home, and Sami wonders if he can justify murder by claiming ‘he was really annoying me, officer’.

Probably not. He’ll have to look it up.

When Mesut comes back, he chooses to sit in the small space between Sami and the armrest, even though there’s a perfectly comfortable armchair two meters away. 

Sami doesn’t feel so annoyed after that.

  

* * *

 

Sami avoids Mesut after meeting him.

Not on purpose—well, okay, kind of on purpose, but it’s not as if he’s always hanging out with his neighbours in the first place. It’s not that weird for him to skip one or two—or maybe five—match nights and choose to stay at home instead, alone, with no cute neighbours there to smile at him and bring him cake.

Sami sighs. There’s no way to make himself sound less pathetic, is there?

See, the thing is, Sami’s last relationship didn’t end well. There was lots of shouting, a couple of pieces of broken furniture, angry sex that did nothing to help the situation, and overall, it was a mess that resulted in Sami moving across Europe and Lena not speaking to him for over a year. They’re fine now, or as close to fine as they can be. They like each other’s pictures on Facebook and occasionally talk through the chat function. They’re getting there.

And it isn’t that Sami is now ‘damaged goods’, like Sergio had joked about when Sami told him why he didn’t want to go clubbing. It’s nothing like it. Sami is fine, honest. He simply doesn’t wanna go through another messy breakup again. And yes, he’s looking too far into the future by skipping the whole relationship part and jumping straight to the end, but he’d really liked Lena, right from the start, just like he really likes Mesut.

Sami doesn’t want to move again. He likes living in Madrid.

So. He’s avoiding Mesut. Just a little, until he feels like his—he bites down the word, avoids it, but it sticks out on his mind regardless— _crush_ goes away. It’s easier this way. He and Mesut have only talked a couple of times. It shouldn’t take too long for things to become normal between them.

On Friday nights, Sami generally eats alone in his apartment while he catches up on his reading, and goes out afterwards. Tonight he’s got prawn for dinner, because there’s a good market near his place and they don’t require any cooking from his part. He goes out to his balcony, which is more cramped than the subway during rush hour and has a beautiful view of the opposing apartment buildings. Still, it can fit a table and two chairs, and for the rent Sami’s paying, he’s got no room to complain. 

Sami nearly jumps out of his skin when he walks outside and sees somebody else in his balcony, his bowl of prawn avoiding a messy death only through his fast reflexes and a whole lot of luck. His copy of  _Astonishing the Gods_ isn’t as blessed, unfortunately, and it lands with the book flipped open so that the spine, already old and frayed, bends precariously.

Sami doesn’t notice this at first, too busy with the whole ‘you live on the eighth floor and there is someone else in your balcony thing’. It takes him a few seconds to realize that the shadow he’s seeing is Mesut, and that he’s in his own balcony, which is right next to Sami’s, separated by two metal railings and one meter of air.

“You just scared the crap out of me,” Sami says as a way of starting conversation. Mesut is staring at him with a bemused smile on his face and as much as Sami would like to pretend this isn’t happening, it’s rather hard to do so after the little shout he may or may have not let out when he first saw Mesut. 

And by ‘little shout’ he means a shrill, frightened shriek that closely resembled something that would normally come from a seven-year-old, but those are details, really.

“Sorry,” Mesut says, “It’s a nice out tonight, so I thought I’d try out the balcony and read for bit,” he waves his book in the air as if to emphasize his point. Sami doesn’t catch the title on the cover, but he thinks it might be Harry Potter. He mentally checks off ‘similar taste in literature’ as something they’d have in common.

He nods and picks up his own book with a frown. The spine’s not going to hold up for much longer. He’ll have to do something about it; it’s not like there are many first editions of Okri’s works lying around.

“Are you going out later?” Sami asks as he sets up his dinner, even though what he should do is stay quiet, let a silence fall between them so he doesn’t keep looking at Mesut and noticing the little things, like how his shirt is too tight around his shoulders or how he has slight bags under his eyes.

Mesut wrinkles his nose and says, “Sergio invited me, but I don’t drink and I don’t like clubbing, so I think I’m mostly out for those kind of plans.”

And now Sami feels like shit, because Sami is not into those plans either, he prefers quiet bars and one or two beers, enough to get a little buzz, but not enough to even get tipsy. He could have invited Mesut to come out with him at any point, if he hadn’t been too busy stuck in his own head. Instead, he keeps going out with Cristiano and the others—who, again, are great, but like Mesut said, into different things—when he could have just invited Mesut, who is reading alone on a Friday night.

If that’s what Mesut’s into, it’s fine, but Sami’s seen him around the other guys, and he knows Mesut can be pretty sociable as long as he’s in an environment he’s comfortable in.

“Do you wanna go out somewhere more quiet then? I know a nice bar close by. You don’t have to drink and we can invite Xabi and Álvaro, I know they like quieter places as well.”

Mesut flashes him a closed smile. “You don’t have to invite me out if you don’t want to. Really, it’s fine.”

“No, no. Come on, I know that. I wanna invite you because I want to hang out with you,” Sami says, and then, because he’s an idiot, because his mouth is too big for him and because Mesut looks kind of miserable and he wants to fix that, he adds, “Us germans have to stick together in this crazy city, right?”

The smile he gets this time is more real, solid. “Alright,” Mesut says. They talk while Sami eats dinner and Mesut slouches in his uncomfortable, plastic chair.

“You should get a beanbag,” Sami suggests as he’s finishing his meal.

“But it’d get wet when it rained,” Mesut says. He sounds like a little child pointing out an obvious fact they can’t believe their parents are missing. Sami rolls his eyes.

“You could just take it inside every night,” he picks up his plate, book and cutlery in one hand, uses the other for his empty glass of sangria and the bowl from earlier. He doesn’t have to look at Mesut to tell the other man is looking down at his plastic chair and thinking about how much effort it’d take to move a beanbag to the balcony every time he wanted to go outside.

A couple of minutes later, Mesut knocks on his doorstep. He’s wearing white graphic tee underneath a black leather jacket and he has his small fringe lifted up. He looks good. Really good. Sami tries not to stare.

Mesut isn’t as subtle. He gives Sami a proper once over before he grins and gives him a thumbs up. “I like your jeans,” Mesut says.

They’re a washed out black and make Sami’s ass look like ‘Adonis’ ass, hand carved by Michelangelo himself’. Sergio’s words, not his.

Sami coughs, says, “You look nice, too,” then curses himself for sounding as smooth as two pieces of flint rubbing together.

Mesut doesn’t seem to mind. He just smiles at Sami again and leads the way to the elevator. 

Sami is the first to pay the rounds. He gets himself tap beer, Mesut a sugary drink whose name he doesn’t even recognise and two Guinnesses for the niche club. He is not the least bit surprised to find Iker, Sergio and Raúl at their table by the time he gets back.

“This is nice. Why don’t we come here more often?” Sergio asks. He’s looking around the place as if he’s never seen anything like it in his life. 

“Because the last time we came to a bar you started a fight with the fucking jukebox machine,” Iker says with so much derision that it makes everyone at the table laugh.

Sergio kicks him under the table, and of course Iker kicks back, because deep down they’re all twelve year olds. In a matter of seconds, they’re all kicking each other under the table, except for Sami and Mesut, who have a better sense of self-preservation.

Mesut has smile on his face as he watches his friends all fight each other by the sideline. Seeing it makes Sami lean over and ask, “Feeling scared by all the crazy or is this right at home with you?”

“Neither, but I like it,” Sami raises his eyebrows at him. “My old neighbours were a retired couple. They—” Mesut points at where Iker’s got Sergio in a headlock underneath the table, “are a lot more fun.”

Sami nods. Fair enough. He’ll admit he likes the crazy as well. All the noise, the shouting and the ‘I swear I didn’t have sex on your bed last night, bro. Come on, you know I wouldn’t do that to you. I did it in the shower and then washed it for you, bro. I’ve got your back’ are a bit too much sometimes, but for the most part they’re just fun.

Not to mention that Sami remembers his first weeks in Madrid, when he didn’t know a lick of Spanish and had no one to hang out with. His loud, crazy neighbours had come as a blessing back then. He imagines it’s the same for Mesut now.

“And you two,” Iker says, looking up at them, “you’re in Madrid now! You need to stop speaking in German, otherwise the rest of us can’t understand you.”

“Maybe we don’t want you to understand us,” Sami says in Spanish, lifting one perfect, judgemental eyebrow at Iker.

“ _Ooh_ ,” Raúl goes, playing the role of the three stooges until the others show up, “Sami breaking hearts again. It’s okay, Iker. I’ll speak in Spanish to you so you can understand me.”

Iker leans over the table just to punch him. “I don’t want to understand you, asshole.”

A couple of minutes later the portuguese speaking committee shows up and Marcelo forces Iker and Raúl to hold hands until they ‘solve their differences’, which infinitely amuses Raúl and makes Iker grumble about how he needs to find a new apartment.

Sami doesn’t say anything, simply grins and leans back on his chair. He lets their conversation wash over him, speaks to Mesut through conspiratorial whispers so the others don’t hear them speaking in german and drinks everything that’s placed in front of him. Mesut jokes around with everyone, Sergio, Cristiano, even Iker, and it’s nice, relaxing.

That night, Sami drinks more than he usually does. He doesn’t mean to, but Mesut is pressed against him the entire evening, from his feet to his hips to his shoulders. Sami figures an extra drink or two might help him disconnect from how there’s not an inch of space between them.

It also helps him deal with how his plan has done a complete 180º and gone to absolute shit without barely any input from him.

Although, truth be told, Sami doesn’t mind it. Deep down he knew, his plan was kind of shit.

Mesut’s a nice guy. Good listener, good talker. Kind of sarcastic, but also really soft around the edges. The kind of person that makes you want to pinch their cheeks and coo at them, which Sami is pretty sure he does at one point, but Mesut bats his hand away with a smile on his face, so it should be fine.

Sami’s glad he doesn’t get too drunk, however, because it means he’s perfectly capable of walking home with Mesut at a respectable distance of arms brushing every now and then after Mesut says, “I’m kind of tired. Do you wanna leave?”

Mesut whistles a song during the short walk home, but Sami doesn’t recognise the tune. Sounds nice, though. The kind of song mothers sing to their children before bedtime. He stops singing when they get to the elevator, prefers to watch Sami with a soft smile on his face as Sami rests his head on the cool, elevator walls and questions his life choices.

He might not be drunk, but he’s not far from it either.

“Do you need help getting into your apartment?” Mesut asks him, because Mesut seems to be one of those rare people who are genuinely kind to others, or maybe that’s just how Sami sees him.

Sami shakes his head. “No, it’s fine. I’m good.”

He takes his keys out of his pocket, but before he walks to his door he leans in and gives Mesut a big hug, presses a kiss to Mesut’s temple without thinking. Mesut fits nicely into his arms, that’s one thing Sami does think, and he’s warm, like, really warm and comfortable, and if Sami wanted, he could just turn his head and drag his lips down until they met Mesut’s mouth.

He pulls back his head enough that he and Mesut can look each other in the eye. Mesut looks a little bit dazed, as if he’s frozen in time, stares back at Sami in silence. He’s not moving away, though, so that has to mean something. He looks like he’s waiting for Sami to make the first move, and if Sami just leaned forward he could— they could—

Mesut licks his lips, once, and Sami thinks ‘I want to’, but then before he can do anything, Mesut is laughing and gently pushing him away.

“You sure?” he asks. Sami has to stop and try to remember what Mesut is referring to, nodding when he gets it and disappointed at what happened.

At least Mesut is smiling, not too wide, just the corners of his mouth pulling up, so he can’t be mad or anything. Sami likes that smile. 

He doesn’t notice he’s said that out loud until Mesut laughs again, this time louder, and says, “Thanks, I like yours too.”

Sami laughs as well, but it’s in embarrassment. He shakes his head once more to clear it, says, “Goodnight,” and goes into his apartment, falling back against the door after he's closed it. 

He breathes deeply for a couple of seconds, until his head stops spinning and his heart rate slows down. Now that Mesut is gone and Sami can think properly, he’s happy that they didn’t kiss. Relieved even. Mesut is a nice guy, he really is, but.  It’s still too early, and Sami—he doesn’t do rushing into things.

He’s the kind of guy who plans in detail and thinks about everything and he doesn’t just kiss people, no matter how attractive, funny and considerate they are. T he kind who gives you a hug before saying goodnight and texts everyone in the morning, ‘did you die? reply so i know whether or not to contact your family. ps: i’m keeping your DVD collection.’

It’s what works for him and he likes it, even if it means he stays up all night thinking about what would have happened if he’d leaned in a second earlier and kissed Mesut.

 

* * *

 

A week later, Mesut gets rid of his plastic chair and replaces it with two beanbags. He asks Sami to come over that night for dinner. Sami says yes. This works, too.

 

 

For his own birthday party, Sami is in charge of bringing a potato salad.

Why he, the birthday man, has to bring anything for a party somebody else is throwing him, and why a potato salad, of all things, falls under ‘things Sami could ask about, but, since that requires more effort than he’s willing to spend on something so meaningless, will forever remain a mystery’. He didn’t have this list before he came to Spain. Then again, he didn’t have a lot of the things he has now when he came to Spain.

On their rooftop, there is an actual table by the staircase door where people can drop off their gifts to him. A part of Sami wants to bitch about how he’s not twelve anymore, but another part of him is mostly just shocked at the amount of presents there, which seem to be evenly divided between booze and random crap, not to mention, “Who the hell bought me a cactus?” he asks the room at large.

“It’s so you can’t kill it!” Marcelo shouts from the other side of the roof, where he’s lounging on one of the sun chairs.

“I used to own geraniums!” Sami complains, offended that people think he can’t take care of a regular houseplant. He can take care of tons of plants, and animals too if he wanted to. The only reason he doesn’t is because he doesn’t want to.

“Yeah, and didn’t those die?” Iker asks as he takes a sip of his beer, looking at Sami over the rim of his glass.

Sami’s eyes form two slits as he glares at Iker. “Of natural causes. They lived for two months longer than geraniums usually do.”

“Sure, sure,” Iker says, moving away to find his girlfriend. “Oh, and happy birthday,” he adds with a suspicious, devil-like grin.

Sami’s about to say something witty and dry in reply when he realises why Iker was grinning. All at once, everyone on the roof descends upon him to wish him a happy birthday, mess his hair and pat him on the back.

Sami groans and fruitlessly tries to push people away while he makes his way over to the food table with his potato salad. See, this is why Sami doesn’t celebrate his birthday. Nobody messes with his hair on normal days, and he doesn’t have to try to make potato salad, fail three times and be forced to go buy some at the supermarket if he wants to make it in time to his own party.

Not that he’s admitting that last part to anyone. Well, anyone except the person currently walking towards him.

“Hey, you brought the potato salad!”

“Yeah, it’s store-bought though. Cooking really isn’t my strong suit,” Sami scratches the back of his neck, puts his salad near the chips and the giant keg of beer.

“It’s fine, it will match the cake,” Mesut says, making Sami laugh. “Also, happy birthday!” 

He reaches over to Sami to give him a hug. The opportunity to mess Sami’s hair isn’t, of course, missed, but as with most things, Sami finds that he doesn’t mind it as much with Mesut as he’d mind it with anyone else. He hugs Mesut back and whispers, “Thank you for the party,” into his ear.

When they step back, Mesut is grinning from ear to ear, says, “Don’t mention it,” as he busies himself arranging the already arranged food on the table.

Sami pokes him at his side, right beneath his ribs where he knows Mesut is ticklish, until Mesut turns to him and asks, “What?” sounding annoyed, but not looking the part from the smile still on his lips.

“Nothing,” Sami says, because Mesut brings this side out of him; the ridiculous, childlike side that makes him want to poke him and blow a raspberry at him to get his attention. Sami doesn’t quite know what to make of it, doesn’t know how to explain the way Mesut makes the air lighter and easier to breathe just by being around.

He thinks the word ‘crush’, and then he thinks about the months of friendship he shares with Mesut and maybe the word ‘crush’ isn’t so fitting anymore. He ruffles Mesut’s hair, returning the favour from earlier, and goes searching for Sara so he can tell her embarrassing stories about Iker. Payback will be beautiful.

 

  


 

Despite his earlier complaining about not liking to celebrate his own birthday, Sami enjoys himself all afternoon. He’s spending time with people he genuinely likes, which is a major plus, and it’s easy to flow from one person to another, making small chat as they drink and swim around. The fact that he didn’t have to plan anything is also another big plus. He makes a mental note to thank Mesut again later.

Sami’s talking to Marcelo and his girlfriend when Cristiano and Fábio, who had until then been missing, show up carrying a large gift between them. They get everyone’s attention when they deposit the gift on the table with a loud _thud_. Sami stares at the package from far away, silently evaluating the situation. He takes three steps toward it and stops. He stares some more. He looks at Cristiano, who is grinning at him, and at Fábio, who looks mostly exasperated, but also a little amused.

Finally, Sami asks, “Is that a stone bust?” because that is exactly what the badly wrapped gift looks like and just— what the hell?

“Yupe,” Cristiano says. His grin gets wider.

“Of whom?” Sami walks up to it, eyes the gift from side to side without daring to touch it.

Cristian’s grin defies the laws of physics by getting even wider. “Take a guess.”

“You wouldn’t…” Sami says, mostly to himself, even though he knows damn well Cristiano would.

By now most of the people at the party have formed a circle around them. Mesut is right by Sami’s side, eyeing the gift curiously. Fábio has left in the search of something to drink that’s probably eighty percent alcohol and twenty percent soda. Being Cristiano Ronaldo’s best friend isn’t a job for everyone.

Sami slowly pulls off the white and gold wrapping paper to find what he already expected to, but still hoped against all hopes he wouldn’t, find. A marble bust of Cristiano Ronaldo.

“It’s signed at the bottom,” Cristiano points out. Sami stares at him incredulously with his mouth hanging open.

“What am I even gonna do with this? I— just— how much did this even cost?”

“Put it on display, obviously. And don’t worry about the price, just should consider yourself blessed now you’re the first proud owner of a CR7 bust.”

“You mean the rest of us are going to get one too?” Mesut asks. He looks as shocked and appalled as Sami does. Good. Sami refuses to feel like the weird one simply because Cristiano lives in a bubble of his own creation.

“The store had a package deal,” Cristiano winks at Mesut and gives Sami a hug before he goes after Fábio to steal his drink. Sami and Mesut watch him walk away, still frozen in place.

Sami stares at the bust for a couple of seconds before he takes a step back. “In a way, I feel like I should have seen this one coming. In another, I know there’s no way in a million years I could have ever predicted this.”

“Are you going to open the rest of the presents now?” Mesut asks. Most of the people watching them have already dispersed now that the mystery of Cris’ gift has been solved.

Sami shakes his head. “I’ll do it later. I think I’m going to go for a swim now.”

He heads for the pool, thinking Mesut will follow him, but Mesut goes the other way to talk to Sergio. Alright, Sami thinks, and refuses to be jealous because he’s a grown man and he doesn’t do jealous. If, by any chance, his dive bomb into the pool splashes water all over Sergio and Mesut, that is hardly his fault and can only be blamed on the laws of gravity.

Sergio, expectedly, gets mad, but it’s the ‘oh you fucker’ kind of mad that has him grinning a lot and trying to hit Sami without actually getting near the water. Sami laughs and swims back, until Sergio has no choice but to jump after him. A couple of other people jump as well, until they’re all in the pool, laughing and playfully fighting each other, most people still with drinks in their hands. The two last people to get in are Cristiano and Mesut, the latter of which gets pushed into the pool by the former.

Sami doesn’t think anything of it, continues trying to push Sergio underwater while fighting off Pepe at the same time. 

It takes him longer than he likes to admit to realise something is wrong.

Sami’s a protective guy by nature. Be it with his family or friends, be them older or younger, Sami has always liked to keep an eye on everyone, make sure everything’s alright.

If possible, Mesut brings out this instinct even further. It’s a little ridiculous at times. Sami doesn’t mean to literally keep his eyes on people to make sure they don’t accidentally stab themselves with a fork, but he does it with Mesut, because Mesut is naive for all that he’s a skeptic as well. He’s too thin and he trusts too much, too quickly, and Sami worries, couldn’t help it even if he tried.

So he’s watching the spot where Mesut fell into with one eye, watching Sergio and Marcelo with the other, and the diverge in his attention means it takes him longer than it should to realize Mesut has yet to come back for air. Sami thinks maybe he’s just swimming underwater even as the space inside his chest starts to constrict. Irrational panic starts to bubble in his veins. He thinks Mesut is fine, has to be, and then he pushes Sergio out the way, Cristiano next, clears the space in front of him until he can look down and see that Mesut is—

Lying at the bottom of the pool by the deep end. His arms are spread wide and his eyes are closed and he’s not moving, not in the slightest. His skin looks too pale underwater, a sickly pale colour that reminds Sami of how his Grandma looked in her last days. 

Sami dives underwater and uses every muscle and bone in his body to pull up Mesut. The swim upward doesn’t take too long, but it still feels as if the universe is between them and the surface. Specks of white light blur Sami’s vision. His lungs burn from the exertion. 

He forgets sometimes, Mesut is not as thin as he looks.

Sami doesn’t think as he swims. He limits himself to kicking upwards and pulling Mesut tight against his chest, tries not to notice how cold he is, because of course he’s cold, they’re underwater, it doesn’t mean anything. It doesn’t.

The first thing Sami does once his head goes above the water is pull in a forced breath, the kind that scalds his lungs and leaves his gasping. Mesut remains motionless. Iker helps him pull Mesut out of the water and Sami thinks ‘chest compressions’ and ‘mouth to mouth’ and how he has no clue how to do either. Luckily somebody else does, and before he knows it Xabi’s there, pressing his hands against the centre of Mesut’s chest. 

He does that for too long, Sami thinks, but he doesn’t know anything about CPR so he doesn’t say anything. Everyone watches in stretching silence as Xabi keeps pushing and occasionally breathing into Mesut’s mouth, eyes focused on his face, until finally Mesut is breathing, gasping and struggling for a lungful of oxygen as he spits out the water in his lungs.

Sami’s sigh is a quiet, drawn-out sound. His shoulders slump, his hands go limp. Every inhale and exhale still feels vicious going through his throat. He must have swallowed some water back there, but he didn’t notice. He didn’t notice much of anything besides the weight in his arms.

Xabi speaks to Mesut in slow, steady Spanish and Mesut shakes his head in reply. He looks disoriented, lost. Sami takes a step towards him, abandons the edge of the pool to get closer.

Just as he does so, Iker asks, “What happened?” in a quiet voice.

Mesut shakes his head, doesn’t say anything, but his eyes stray towards the pool, towards Cristiano. 

Iker immediately turns to glare at him. Cristiano holds his arms up defensively, but he doesn’t sound like he’s actually trying to defend himself. He just sounds as scared as the rest of them. “I didn’t do anything! I mean I pushed him, yeah, but I was just joking around. I thought he’d swim back up.”

“I—” Mesut swallows down a shallow breath. He coughs, hard, makes this dying, wheezing sound that seems to rattle him to his bones. He closes his eyes for so long Sami fears he’s going to pass out, but when he finally opens them again, there’s nothing but crystal clarity in the focus of his gaze.

Mesut gets up, pushing Xabi off him not too gently, says, “I need to—” but doesn’t finish, as if he doesn’t know what to say or how to say it.

The first step he takes, his knee almost gives up on him and sends him sprawling to the floor, but he picks himself up in time and in seconds is out the door, down the staircase without a word.

Everybody’s staring, maybe in shock, maybe just unsure of how to act. Sami pulls himself out of whatever daze he’s in and says, “I’ll go after him,” because this is Mesut, and Mesut is his best friend, the only good thing from Germany he still holds close, the person who insists on baking him orange cakes even though he can’t bake. “You guys keep drinking and having fun, it’s fine. I’ll be back in a bit,” he adds, even though he has no idea if he’s going to come back. It’s easier this way.

He follows the trail of pool water Mesut leaves behind him, down to the tenth floor and into the elevator. He clicks on the shiny ‘8’ in the panel, knows there’s nowhere else Mesut would go.

He’s not sure what he’s expecting to find when he gets to their floor, but he knows it’s not Mesut, still in his clothes, dripping by the door to his apartment. He’s trying to get the keys into the lock, but his hands are shaking too bad in shivers that go up his arms. His entire body is curved, hidden, tense and ready to snap.

Sami approaches him as if he’s approaching a wild animal. He’s loud enough that Mesut can hear him even if he can’t see him. The hand he rests on Mesut’s shoulder is too warm compared to the glacier feel of Mesut’s skin. Sami leaves it there, tries to share some of his body heat through that small point of contact, and takes the keys with his other hand. Mesut doesn’t turn to look at Sami at any point, his eyes fixed on the ground, but he doesn’t push him away either. Sami takes that as a good sign and doesn’t feel too bad about it when he follows Mesut into his home without an invitation.

The first thing Mesut does as soon as he’s inside his apartment is head towards the kitchen, but once he’s there he stops, puts his hands on one of the counter and just stares at them. His breathing is so loud Sami can hear it from the door and his chest heaves backward and forward too quickly, almost painfully, as if Mesut can’t pull in enough air to stop himself from suffocating. His hands are closed in two white fists and his entire frame is shaking now, tiny shudders that run down his body.

Sami doesn’t know if Mesut is having a panic attack or something else, doesn’t know what he should do, so he does what he can do and what he knows how to do. He goes up to Mesut and turns him around, doesn’t push or pull with any real force. He tucks Mesut’s chin underneath his head and wraps his arms around Mesut’s torso, so that Mesut is tucked into him, as safe as Sami can make him.

He doesn’t say, ‘everything is alright’ because he’s not sure if that’s what Mesut needs to hear right now. Instead he says, “Breathe with me,” and inhales and exhales loudly, as deep as he can, so that it’s something for Mesut to focus on.

Mesut’s hands are hanging by his side, but he lifts them up, centimeter by centimeter, until they’re resting on top of Sami’s naked hips. Sami keeps inhaling and exhaling slowly, through his nose. His hands rub soothing circles across Mesut’s back, until eventually Mesut starts to match his pace. Sami doesn’t keep track of how much time they spend there breathing together, dripping water all over Mesut’s linoleum floor.

“You should go take a warm shower,” Sami says after a while, once he’s sure Mesut is shivering from the cold and not something else.

Mesut pulls back from him, but he doesn’t get too far with the counter behind his back. “Yes, and you should get back to the party. Your party. Fuck— I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s fine, Mesut,” Sami cuts him off, pulls Mesut into a hug again to shut him up properly. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“But it’s your party,” Mesut tries to argue.

“And you’re my best friend who threw me said party. I’m not going anywhere for the rest of the day,” Sami shrugs, a ‘what can you do about it’ smile on his face.

Truth be told, he’ll leave if Mesut wants to be on his own. He’s not going to overstay his welcome. However, he knows Mesut; knows that he is at his happiest with one or two people always around. And even if Sami does leave, he doubts he’d be able to go back to the party and enjoy himself knowing he’d left Mesut alone downstairs.

“You’ve got your gifts and everything upstairs…” Mesut says, trailing off at the end. He doesn’t sound like he’s even trying to convince himself at this point.

“If somebody wants to take a potted cactus and a marble bust of Cristiano Ronaldo home with them, then they can be my guest.”

His answer gets the desired reaction from Mesut, who laughs for a second before ducking his head and taking a deep breath. 

“I’m sorry,” Mesut repeats, and Sami would shake him if he didn’t fear the sudden movement would make Mesut throw up on him.

“I’ve told you, it’s fine. Now, go take a warm shower and then we’ll watch a movie together. We can even marathon the Iron Man movies if you want to. I’ll let you tell me why Iron Man is better than Batman without contradicting you every two seconds.”

Mesut squints at him suspiciously. “You hate the Iron Man movies.”

“I’ll make an effort, just for you,” Sami says. He pulls his lips into an exaggerated pout and puts a hand over his heart, hopes the flair for dramatic will get another laugh out of Mesut.

But then Mesut is pulling back and crossing his arms on his chest, which is never a good sign. He examines at Sami as if he’s trying to rake Sami’s soul for any dirty secrets. Sami has no clue what he’s done wrong. He and Mesut joke around like this all the time.

“Did you even care about the party?” Mesut finally asks, throwing Sami off whatever thought tangent he’d been going in.

“What? Of course I did.”

“But would you have cared if I hadn’t been the one to throw it? If Marcelo or Pepe pulled the same stunt on you, would you have let them?”

Sami pulls back and has to fight the instinct to cross his arms like Mesut. He doesn’t want to go on the defensive when he doesn’t even know what’s happening, although it’s difficult not to sound angry. “I’m not sure what you’re saying.”

Mesut notices, because when he speaks next he doesn’t sound as harsh, although he’s just as unrelenting. “Did you only care because it was me?”

This is a test, there’s no doubt about it. Sami’s been under Mesut’s scrutiny—usually related to his reasoning for preferring DC and his love for expensive sushi—enough times to know there’s a right and wrong answer here. He can also tell that this matters, because Mesut is never this aggressive, never this demanding, but Sami doesn’t know what he wants to hear.

He looks at Mesut who is just standing there, staring at him, still in his wet clothes looking like a drenched puppy. At least he’s feeling alright again.

Finally, Sami sighs and says, “Yes, alright. If one of the others did what you did I probably would have told them to fuck off. Does this even matter?” he asks, and if he’s not bitter then there’s definitely a lemon in his mouth speaking for him.

“Does this—” Mesut starts to say, cutting himself off with an annoyed huff before he reaches for Sami’s shoulders and pulls him in for a kiss.

Sami thinks he hears Mesut say the rest of the words against his mouth— _of course it matters_ —but he’s a little distracted what with the whole Mesut kissing him thing to really notice.

Now, Sami would be lying if he said he’d never thought about kissing Mesut, but in all those times he never thought Mesut would be the one in charge, pushing and pulling Sami however he pleases. He also never thought about himself allowing Mesut to back him against a contour and lick open his mouth, and look at them now. Not that Sami is complaining, it’s just that he wasn’t expecting this—any of this.

“Come take a shower with me,” Mesut presses the words into Sami’s jaw, nips on the soft skin there before he pulls back and kisses it.

"Mesut," Sami sighs. He pushes Mesut away with two hands on his shoulders, even though there’s a part of him telling him to shut the hell up and drag Mesut to the shower right that second. "Are you sure? I mean, with everything that happened and just—" Sami struggles, unsure of how to say ‘I don’t wanna be just a quick comfort fuck for you’ without sounding too pathetic, until finally he gives up and says, "I really like you.”

“I know,” Mesut says, sounding both entirely confident of himself and exasperated with Sami, which, really, that’s just mean, Sami’s only trying to get them both on the same page. “That’s why I think we should go take a shower together.”

“But—”

“I go out with Sergio to dirty clubs and Xabi to hipster bars because _you_ like going to those places with them,” Mesut says, staring Sami in the eye, “I like you, too. A lot. And I’m kind of mad you never said anything earlier, but I’m willing to forgive you,” as Mesut speaks he starts pulling off the strings holding up Sami’s swimming shorts.

At that moment, Sami is, to put it quite simply, having a theoretical brain aneurysm. He’s hearing a lot of words he’s been wanting to hear for the best part of a year now, but he’s having a rather hard time making sense of any them thanks to how five minutes ago Mesut was having some sort of panic attack, and now he practically has his hand down Sami’s pants. 

And then Mesut is pulling back, a blank look on his face, and Sami knows that face, that’s Mesut’s ‘closing in on himself’ face. Sami hates seeing that look on him.

He puts a hand on the back of Mesut’s neck and pulls him back for another kiss. In just a couple of seconds Mesut is taking control of the kiss again, and dragging them towards the bathroom in his bedroom. Sami lets him, because the bossy side of Mesut’s personality doesn’t come off that often, but when it does it’s always a joy to see.

Mesut sucks him off in the shower, backs him up against the cold tiles and goes to town like it’s nobody’s business. When he’s done, Sami flips them around, jerks Mesut off while leaving a hickey on his neck. Afterwards he kisses Mesut, doesn’t care that he can taste himself in Mesut’s mouth because it’s Mesut.

“Fuck,” Sami says.

“Yeah,” Mesut coherently replies, grinning against Sami’s mouth.

 

 

After they towel off and make out once more against the bathroom counter—Sami’s beginning to worry they have a thing for flat, stone surfaces—Mesut goes into his bedroom to find them some clothes. He throws Sami a t-shirt and pair of sweatpants, picking something similar for himself and skipping the underwear.

Sami puts on the sweatpants without complaints, but he has to stare at the shirt for a couple of seconds before he lifts his gaze and arches an eyebrow at Mesut.

“What? It’s the biggest shirt I have. You’re not that big. I mean,” Mesut backtracks, “you are, but not, like, here,” he waves his hands at his shoulders, blushing like crazy and making Sami laugh until his stomach hurts. “Oh, shut up. You know what I mean.”

“Thank you for the boost to my ego,” Sami says. He kisses Mesut’s temple, because Mesut looks horribly cute when he’s blushing, and Sami knows it will only get the pink in his cheeks to further turn into red. “Just checking here, but this mean we’re dating, right?”

He throws out the question as casually as he can, trying to make it look like it’s not a big deal for him if Mesut says ‘no’. In reality, he’s actually pretty sure he’d do something drastic again if that were to happen. Going back to friends after sex in the shower is a ‘no go’ for Sami.

“Yeah, if you’d like,” Mesut asks, almost shy, which Sami finds ridiculous considering what he was doing to Sami’s dick a couple of minutes ago, but also kind of endearing.

Damn, Sami is so screwed.

“I would like that. And you, are you still up for an Iron Man marathon?”

Mesut laughs and pushes him off. “As if I’d miss an opportunity to educate you on why Marvel is better than DC.”

Sami rolls his eyes, but doesn’t comment. He was the one who set himself up for this, and now he’ll deal with the consequences.

The next two hours are spent not paying any attention whatsoever to the movie playing on the flatscreen. Mesut’s already made Sami watch Iron Man three times, and while it is an enjoyable movie, it’s no Batman Begins and there’s not much Sami can do about that, is there? Not to mention that it’s much funnier to watch Mesut’s facial expressions throughout the movie, how he bites his lips during the tense scenes and always smiles after one of the jokes.

They’re halfway through the second movie, when Mesut whispers, “I almost drowned when I was a kid,” eyes still glued to the television screen.

The statement is off-kilter, would have taken a few seconds to be placed had Sami been paying attention to the movie. Mesut doesn’t continue it, and Sami doesn’t push him to do so either. He strokes the back of Mesut’s neck and keeps his eyes on the television as well. 

After a couple of seconds, Mesut starts talking again in hushed tones. “I was seven and I didn’t know how to swim. My cousin threw me into the pool, and I guess nobody else saw me fall. I think, with the years, I’ve kind of changed the memories, because I can remember everything almost too perfectly. The light above me, the feeling of hitting the bottom of the pool and the way the water was so heavy,” Mesut coughs. Sami squeezes the back of his neck and pulls him closer.

“I guess I never got over it, and when Cristiano pushed me today, it brought back the memories and I panicked. Also, I still can’t swim, which is just stupid, I know.”

Sami kind of wants to shake Mesut’s shoulders to snap some sense into him, while wanting to give him a hug at the same time.

“It’s not stupid. It’s normal. You have a childhood trauma, that’s nothing to be embarrassed about. You know what is stupid, though?” he doesn’t wait for Mesut to reply before he continues, “the fact that you threw me a pool party.”

That gets the desired reaction from Mesut, who immediately sits up and turns to glare at Sami. “I didn’t know that was going to happen! I’m fine with being in a pool or in the ocean, too. It was the throwing part that—” Mesut takes a deep breath. He can’t even say the next words. 

Sami squeezes his knee, tries to get Mesut to focus on him again and not close in on himself like he usually does.

“I’m sorry, you’re right. This is all on Cristiano. I’ll kill him later, throw the bust at his head. We’ll make a run for it afterward, go to Asia and become street artists.”

“We’re not murdering anyone,” Sami grins at how Mesut says ‘we’.

“Fine, but what about—”

“No blackmail either,” Sami pouts. Mesut glares at him before falling back on the couch and sitting as close as possible to Sami. A couple of minutes pass while Mesut relaxes into Sami’s side. “Thank you, though. For everything.”

“You’re welcome,” Sami says.

They watch the third Iron Man movie in silence, but just for Mesut, Sami cheers a little when Tony Stark gets all the suits to fight for him.

 

* * *

 

When they go back to the pool to pick up their things hours later, everyone’s already gone. There’s a note on top of the Cristiano bust that just says ‘I’m really sorry :( - C’. Mesut pockets it with a small grin. Sami figures he might not kill Ronaldo after all.

It takes them three trips to get all the gifts back to Sami’s apartment. Two for the small stuff and one for the freaking bust. Sami puts the stupid thing and the cactus beneath one of his windows, slightly covered by his bookshelf. He’ll figure out what to do with them later. 

The rest of the gifts Mesut forces him to open, right then and there, and also text everyone a thank you note and an invitation to a movie night in his place next week. Sami gets a DVD boxset about a French medical show from Benzema, a ‘Best of Bachata 2012’ CD from Sergio, a really nice bottle of liquor from Fábio, a tie from Xabi and some freaking socks from Álvaro. Sami has no idea what Raúl’s gift is—it looks like a life-like Pokemon in a jar—and makes a mental note to thank Luka and Iker for their nice and thoughtful gift vouchers.

The last gift he opens comes from Mesut. Before Sami has even started to unwrap the paper, Mesut is already speaking, “I know your favourite author is Ben Okri, because that’s what you’re always reading. And I noticed you have a bunch of his first editions, but I saw that you didn’t have this one, so I thought, you know, it’d be a good gift.”

Sami stares at the book on his hands. He lifts his head to stare at Mesut, then goes back to stare at the book. “How did you _even_ find this?”

“On the Internet. I was planning to give it to you at Christmas first, but it took me a while to find it and ship it here. Do you like it?” Mesut asks.

“Do I like it? Yeah, yeah, I love it, I— yeah.” Sami looks at Mesut like he can’t quite believe this is happening, which, truth be told, he can’t. He’d spent months himself trying to find a first edition copy of _The Landscapes Within_ and never even came close. Not to mention that the copy probably cost Mesut an arm and a leg, too.

“I don’t think I’ve ever seen you speechless before.”

Sami coughs, tries to get back some of his composure and fails miserably. He doesn’t really mind. “Thank you,” Sami says, before he carefully puts the book on the opposite end of his coffee table, where its a safe distance away, and lunges at Mesut.

At this rate, they’ll make it to a bed by the end of the night.

Later, when they tell everyone--or let them guess for weeks and laugh at them while doing so--Sami and Mesut will have to endure countless jokes from everyone and Cristiano telling them he knew thanks for this gaydar and sexdar and whatever else _dar_ he claims to have.

And that will be all right, because Sami’s dating someone who keeps trying to bake him his favourite kind of cake even though he can’t bake, goes out at night just because Sami’s going too and spends months trying to find a first edition copy for Sami’s collection, and that is more enough to put up with all the shitty jokes in the world.

 

art above was made by fabilenio. the rest was made by jamesandmesut


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